Spellbound and Swallowed
by temet nosce
Summary: Beneath his fingertips he can feel blood, warm and essential, coursing through her veins. “You leave me absolutely exhausted.”
1. Spellbound and Swallowed

Spellbound and Swallowed

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Sports Medicine

Feedback: It's my first House fic, so if you don't mind.

Summary: Beneath his fingertips he can feel blood, warm and essential, coursing through her veins. "You leave me absolutely exhausted."

«»

"I'll race you to the car!"

She's faster than him, but he'll just say he let her win (if anyone asks). When he catches up to her, she's leaning against a nondescript black sedan, looking towards the sky. He sincerely hopes she doesn't plan to start waxing poetic about the solar system.

"I used to look at the sky all the time when I was younger."

He settles against the car, deciding whether he should cut her off or let her speak. She doesn't say anything else, and he never did like sitting still.

"And now you don't?"

"No."

"Well, there must be a reason."

Looking at him, she has the urge to slap the brim of his hat so it covers his eyes. Instead she looks away, and smiles into her shoulder.

"I wanted to know what was up there. It was a mystery. But now I know why the sky is blue and why stars are in fixed positions."

"Ah. So one could say you like mysteries. The exhilaration of the unknown."

Flinging hair over her shoulder, "Yes," clears her throat, "but now tell me something about you."

Brief pause, then "I've had this deep-seated hatred of rabbits ever since-"

She gives his shoulder a shove, it's not hard but was unexpected, and he drops his cane.

He glances at his cane on the ground, and then to her.

"I didn't know you were prone to violence. You must be fun at parties."

She bends down and picks up his cane, but doesn't give it back to him.

"Can't you give me a straight answer?"

"But this way is more fun."

Waving his cane in the air between them, "You're not getting this back until you tell me something about yourself. I told you something, it's only fair."

"Damn, I left my spare cane in my other pants."

He makes a half-hearted grab for his cane, but to no avail.

"If I'd known beforehand that you wanted to interrogate me, I would've brought my lawyer."

"Dr. House, I mean-"

"It's Greg. It rolls off of the tongue quite nicely."

"Greg …"

"I love it when you say my first name. Gives me chills."

No reaction, but her eyes give her away. "Greg."

Her cheeks are slightly red from the cold weather, and he pretends that doesn't matter.

"You're not off the hook. Tell me something, it can be anything."

Pretending to brush something off of his jacket, he turns towards the car, "I like to read … sometimes."

She grins and he realizes he's losing a game he didn't know he was playing.

"Read what?"

"Books."

He attempts to grab his cane from her again, but succeeds only in grabbing her wrist. He doesn't let go.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Beneath his fingertips he can feel blood, warm and essential, coursing through her veins. "You leave me absolutely exhausted."

"You don't look tired."

"It's a clever ruse. My cane, please?"

Shaking her head, "No. One more."

"Spit it out."

"Who's your favorite author, and why?"

"Isn't this an SAT question?"

She taps him on the chest with his cane. "Humor me."

"Aren't I always doing that?"

"I'm waiting."

Mumbling, "Ernest Hemingway."

"Why?"

"The way he writes. Terse. He uses words sparingly. Straight to the point, there's no pretty language to sift though. He's made short, declarative sentences into an art from."

"Wow."

Furrowed brow, "Wow what?"

She grins, and offers him his cane. He doesn't take it. "That's the most you've ever said to me without using sarcasm."

"I'm sure it was purely accidental," he takes the cane.

Quirking an eyebrow, "I don't think anything you do is accidental."

"Only I get to be a smart ass."

"Some people might be put off by never ending sarcasm, you know."

"And?"

"You don't worry that people won't like you?"

"Trying to get people to like you is a sign of mediocrity."

"What isn't a sign of mediocrity?"

Fingers still wrapped around her wrist, he tugs her to him. She's close enough to see the fine lines in the skin on his face; history by epidermis.

"Buying your boss a cup of coffee."

She smiles, eyelashes brushing his face, "What if I don't drink coffee this late at night?"

"I don't either," his voice lowers, "but let's pretend."

"Okay."

She moves to get into the car, and he lets go of her wrist. For now.


	2. End of the Day Comes Too Soon and Tomorr...

End of the Day Comes Too Soon and Tomorrow's Hard to Tell

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine

Feedback: I'd be appreciative.

Summary: His breath hitting her cheek, there's a different look in his eyes now; it makes her warm, impatient, and downright unsure about her place in the universe.

Random: I was writing an essay for English, concerning beauty; it was open-ended. About seven pages into it I thought of this story, and realized quite suddenly that I wasn't finished with it. Not even close.

«»

It's a painfully typical roadside diner.

"What the hell kind of name is 'Diner-topia'?" He asks while opening the door of the diner.

She walks in ahead of him and wonders if it's at all possible to find acerbic comments sexy, because she's dangerously close to something.

«»

They'd driven for a while; he'd grumbled his way through three radio stations before she gave him a glare. Having hardly been in any situations that warranted said glare, she took pride in its effectiveness.

"Fine," tilting his head towards the radio, "you find something. I'm sure there's a station that plays sappy love songs sung by the children of actual musicians. No doubt they have a slew of commercials for teeth-whitening and home mortgages at fixed rates for thirty years."

She stared at him with an amused look on her face. Thinks it might be past his bedtime.

"What?" His right hand leaves the steering wheel and goes to his thigh. Fingers drumming, palm thumping against denim, he was living proof of Einstein's relativity theory. The seconds were passing slowly. He swears he can feel each one move through him, bringing little changes.

"You're funny."

"I'm literally a hoot. Two hoots if I'm liquored up good enough."

Squinting, "That's not what I meant. When you go into your rants you get this glazed-over look in your eyes while staring off into the distance. Lost to the world."

First resort, "You're so attentive. When you grow up you should be some type of" waves his hand around, for effect, "doctor. You know, 'First do no harm', and all those other pretty idioms."

"Attentiveness doesn't have anything to do with it. You said so yourself."

He gives her a 'you're-telling-me-what-I said-?' face. Along with the bulk of faces he makes, she just shakes it off, unaffected.

Leaning a few inches closer to him, "You said you hired me because I'm aesthetically pleasing."

"About that," moving his hand back to the wheel as he stops at a red light, "the Greeks thought that beauty lies in the symmetry of an object."

"You're claiming an ancient civilization is to blame for the pretense under which you hired me?"

Smiles, but it's brief, "The distance from your brow to your hairline," his steady, surprisingly graceful hand brushes hair away from her forehead, "compared to, let's say … the distance from your nose to your chin," his thumb and forefinger, inches apart, touch her face. It's a whisper and it's gone a breath later.

"I think …"

His breath hitting her cheek, there's a different look in his eyes now; it makes her warm, impatient, and downright unsure about her place in the universe.

"We should-"

A car horn interrupts her reply, but he continues regardless of the traffic pattern.

"Beauty, in its most basic terms, is simplicity. One section of your face is inversely proportional to the other, and for the majority of the population, that's pleasing to the eyes. But-"

The car's horn interrupts again. He pays it no mind.

"We as humans, thinking, feeling creatures, can't deal with beauty in just its most basic form. Our reaction to an object, whether it's a puddle of oil on a driveway or a ninety-pound supermodel, is beauty at its most complex. The ability to evoke emotion, to wrench it from us, willing or not; it's satisfying, invigorating, or just maddening. It's chemical processes and the escalated beat of one's heart."

A few irritated drivers are moving around his car now, their passing sometimes accented with a crude gesture or comment. He's heard it all before. She hasn't, but at the moment feels like she's stuck, and not just in a sea of pissed off strangers.

"In ten or twenty years I'll look different, everyone will. Our habits, our environment, and maybe some luck," he rolls his eyes, "looks are fleeting."

"There's always, on some level, a response-"

"Things change but stay the same."

"Yes. The good thing about being human is that beauty doesn't go away. It's fixed, not relative. It's impossible to compare two things on looks alone; beauty is infinitely subjective. Fifty years from now your symmetrical, well-proportioned face all but guarantees that I would-"

There's knocking on his window, just another in a long line of interruptions. Like a flipped switch, he's already annoyed before the window is completely down.

"Yes?"

Allison leans forward to glance outside his window. It's an average looking man, late twenties to early thirties. The look on his face suggests that he's not in agreement with House's improvisational parking.

"I have to be somewhere, you know."

"And just how does getting out of your car to talk to complete strangers help you get there faster?"

She muffles her laughter. Judging by the look the man gives her she didn't do it too well.

Average looking man is becoming annoyed by House's nonchalant attitude.

"You're in the middle of the street. You're blocking traffic!"

"Both of those statements are, in fact, true. One could say blatantly obvious."

"I'm calling the police. I don't have to deal with this shit!"

"You want to call the police? Put me in my place? Be a big, tough man? Be my guest. But first," he turns around and reaches for something behind his seat.

Scared that he's going to pull out some intricately carved homemade weapon, she grabs his forearm. He looks down, as if to make a point that she's touching him, and then up at her.

"Greg"

Quietly, "Don't worry your pretty little ass. Just sit tight a moment longer."

Letting go of his arm, she trusts he's not going to do anything stupid. That fact makes her feel slightly ridiculous.

He turns back around quickly – with his cane. Average looking man doesn't look impressed by the cane. Most aren't.

"So what? It's a cane."

"You're such a clever little man, aren't you? Try looking at things from my perspective. I could say that you're harassing me; I'm a poor, lonely, defenseless man with a limp. Pressing the gas pedal for extended periods of time makes my leg hurt, oh so bad. You're going to look like a real bastard, huh?"

Average man's face turns several shades of red, and then he turns around and walks away.

Leaning out of the window, "Wait! Come back! We haven't done each other's hair yet! At least tell me where you got those shoes!"

Before he has the chance to yell any other comments at the retreating man's back, she grabs his collar and pulls him back into the car.

He stares at her, an incredulous look on his face.

Shrugging, "I wanted to get your attention."

Trying to straighten his now crooked collar, he addresses her. "A simple 'Greg?' would've sufficed. But what am I thinking? Only civilized people use language instead of force."

"You don't listen to most of what people say to you. Unless you're going to use it to throw back into someone's face. Besides," turning up the song that's playing on the radio, "this way is more fun."

He doesn't respond to the fact that she repeated his own words from earlier back to him. Not sure if that's a good sign or not, she stares out her window.

His foot eases off of the brake, and they're once again on their way.

Minutes later she sees movement out of the corner of her eye, and turns towards him. His hand is back on this thigh again; she notices he's playing along with the song on the radio. She's a little surprised that he knows 'Excitable Boy', but more surprised that he knows how to play the piano. Noticing her staring at his hand, still keeping up with the music, he stops abruptly. Turning back towards the window, she wonders what else he's ashamed of.

«»

Now they're at this diner, predictably in the middle of nowhere. It's somewhere; he just doesn't care for it much. They've been inside the diner for less than a minute and two people have already smiled at him. That kind of unabridged friendliness nauseates him to no end.

A waitress walks up to them. Looks to be mid-thirties, according to the nametag her name is Bobbie, and she has three pens in her blonde hair. He's sure she's not aware of that fact, and she may even have a stapler in there she doesn't know about.

"You guys doing good today?"

She decides to cut him off before he says something to get them both kicked out of the diner. She's really hungry.

"We're good, thanks." She just knows that he's glaring at her.

"You guys want the counter or a table?"

"A table would be good," thinking for a second, "actually, a booth would be better."

Bobbie pastes on her customer service smile, "Follow me."

As they're trailing behind the waitress, he leans down and whispers, "A booth? Are we going to share a milkshake and talk about study hall?"

Slightly annoyed for thinking of him, "Your leg. I thought you'd be more comfortable."

"Oh," as they arrive at the table.

"I'll be back in a few minutes with the menus, hmm?" Bobbie says.

He watches Bobbie leave, and silently prays that her service is better than her sentence structure.

Meanwhile, Allison slides into the booth and takes off her jacket, which she throws next to her on the worn vinyl seat.

He clears his throat.

She sees him standing next to her. "Scoot."

Confused, "What?"

Exasperated sigh. "You know. Scoot. Intransitive verb, Scandinavian origin; it means to move swiftly or to slide while seated. Example: Scoot over and let me sit down."

"Thanks for the life-changing etymology lesson, Professor House. I've never loved words until this exact moment."

Grinning, "You have hidden sarcasm. I knew it."

Smiling, because him grinning warrants that, "Anyway. You really want me to move?"

"No, I just like wasting breath. Yes! Move so I can sit down."

She moves over and he slides into the booth. He tosses his cane on the seat opposite them and puts his leg up next to it.

Groaning, "Ah, that's glorious."

Noticing his foot on the other seat, "Is your leg bothering you?"

"My leg," taking his Vicodin bottle from his pocket, he takes a pill out, swallowing it dry. Cap back on, he returns the bottle to his pocket.

"My leg is always bothering me. If it's not the pain it's the impaired mobility."

Menus appear in front of them. "You guys want a drink?"

Bobbie's back and smiling.

He's too quick this time, "Yes. I'll have coffee. None of that decaf monstrosity, either."

"So," turning to her, "what do you want?"


	3. Implicit Function

Implicit Function

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine

Feedback: If you want.

Summary: Underneath the palm of her hand, the affected beat of his heart is a subtle reminder that neither of them really knows any better.

«»

"I'll have …"

If she takes any longer he's going to take out a stopwatch and time her. It must be a world record. Some money could be made from this horrid situation.

"Allison."

Scanning the menu like a patient's chart, her lips pressed in a thin line. It's the universal symbol for a woman on the edge; if he says one rude comment or thoughtless remark, she'll be angry. The chance to throw her off balance, even a little bit, is irresistible. His fingers, once splayed on the Formica table, are fidgeting as scenarios fly through his mind at a speed that scares even him. It's a rush, and he marvels as his imagination paints Technicolor possibilities on the backs of his eyelids.

He looks at Bobbie standing there smiling at them. It's a guise; he knows she's thinking of a way to speed things up, too. Mentally saluting her, he turns his attentions back to Allison.

Sliding closer to her, "What's the problem?"

"Give me a second, okay?"

Leaning even closer, he pretends he's glancing at the menu. He's trying to unnerve her; most don't like people in their personal space. With his eyes working their way down the menu he'd so much as memorized minutes earlier, he moves a little closer. He's at the end of the appetizers and … crap. He just looked down the front of her shirt. It was an accident! He couldn't help himself, really. Why try to fight nature when you can go along with it? He's almost in her lap at this point and he wonders why she hasn't seemed to notice.

Slowly turning her head, she looks at him but speaks to the waitress. "I'll have coffee, too."

Somewhat relieved, "You want anything to eat with that?"

He turns towards Bobbie to reply, but instead, "Ow!"

Allison's hand is on his leg, like a vice, and he wonders what the hell she's been eating.

Suddenly she has a 'girl-next-door' smile, which makes what her hand is doing to the muscles in his thigh even more sadistic.

"Yes. Would you mind giving us a few minutes, though?"

"Sure." Bobbie leaves and takes any hope of him getting out of this situation with her.

With no pretense, "What is your problem?"

Feigning innocence, but it's hard with her squeezing the life out of his leg, "Actually, you're the one with the death grip on my-"

"I'm a doctor, I know exactly where my hand is and what it's doing. Answer me."

For the sake of his leg he decides he should just tell her what she wants to know.

"If you insist, I was trying to freak you out a little. Bother you. You're a real killjoy, but I'm sure you already know that."

"You're a jerk most of the time, but I like you better when you're not trying to be a jerk."

"Golly gee, as long as you like me-"

"You want to do something to freak me out? Be nice to me," letting go of his leg, "it won't kill you."

Anything's got to be better than this, he thinks. He rubs his thigh, hoping the blood is still circulating.

As she picks up the menu again, he considers her statement. For about three seconds. At least she didn't notice him taking a peek down the-

"Do I have to stop wearing low-cut shirts around you?"

Trying not to smile, she's still looking at the menu. He's not fooled.

"Don't flatter yourself. It was accidental."

"You were staring. I thought you'd lost your car keys down the front of my shirt."

"Now that you mention it, I lost a wristwatch last week," he leans forward.

She places a hand on his chest to stop him from moving closer. Or to stop herself. They're sitting hip-to-hip, his arm casually across the back of their seat. If she didn't know any better, she'd be a little anxious. Underneath the palm of her hand, the affected beat of his heart is a subtle reminder that neither of them really knows any better.

"Accelerated heart rate."

She feels the muscles in his chest tense and believes she might've hit a nerve.

With a smirk, "Diagnosis?"

"An underlying case of insanity, aggravated by stress and a negative outlook on life."

"Excellent. Treatment?"

"Try to get more fun out of life-"

"This life?"

Faux-stern look, "It's not polite to interrupt."

"And I'm so concerned with politeness."

"Excuse me," Bobbie's back, with her voice hinting at inconvenience.

She places two cups of coffee on the table. "Did you make up your minds yet?"

"Yes," taking her hand from his chest, "I'd like a tuna melt."

"Anything on the side?"

"No."

"And you, sir?"

"A double bacon cheeseburger with extra lettuce, tomato, and onion. I want it rare. I don't mean rare as in medium-rare, I mean rare. Actually, if it's possible, I'd like to see the thing killed in front of me. Just to make sure."

"Rare," said Bobbie, loud enough to hear three tables away.

"I want to be able to smell the blood coming from it."

"Greg," in a hushed whisper.

Ignoring Allison next to him, "That's all, Bobbie. Thanks for playing."

As soon as Bobbie is out of earshot, "You were doing so well, too."

"Is this an exam of some sort? If I fail, do I get a do-over?"

"No, it's not. But you only get one chance."

"This is my entertainment. I don't understand why people want me to change my behavior."

"It's not so much that," she sighs, deciding whether she should continue.

"I'll save you the trouble," staring her straight in the eye. "The wry comments, the rants, and breaking people's spirits are because I can't stand to sit on the sidelines. That cane, and everything associated with it, is a daily reminder of something I want to forget. I wasn't too personable before this," patting his right leg, "but I had hobbies that I enjoyed, at least."

She's tearing up, even with the lack of centrifuges, and tries to turn away before he notices.

Turning back towards him, "How's your leg?"

"I already told you-"

Shaking her head, "No. I meant from when I grabbed it."

"It's … okay. You didn't make it worse, if that's what you thought."

"Don't move suddenly," as she turns backwards in her seat. Grasping the back of their booth with one hand, she starts to slide her leg over him.

"It's my leg, not my-"

"Watch out." She slides her other leg over and she's unintentionally straddling him.

"We're in a public place," while his hands move to her sides.

She finishes sliding over him, turns around to give him a dirty look, and then walks to the cashier.

In the meantime, he tries to think of some witty comment in regards to what she just did (there isn't one). He's shocked that his unlimited supply of sarcasm may, very well indeed, be limited.

She comes back to the booth with a big plastic bag. Also present: a smile.

"Could you hand me my coat, please?"

He hands her the coat. As she's putting it on, the hem of her shirt rides up a few inches and he sees what looks like a tattoo peeking out from the waist of her pants. His jaw clenches; half of his blood supply rushes to his face, and the other half goes, not with a whimper but with a bang, to his groin. He's never been in so much trouble.

"Get your coat, we're leaving."

She hands him his cane as he stands up to put on his coat.

"The food?"

Holding up the plastic bag, "Paid for."

Buttoning his coat, "Is this the part when you tell me what's going on?"

"You said you had things you enjoyed?"

He hopes that's a non sequitur. "Yes. Why?"

As she takes his arm to lead him out of the diner, "Show me."


	4. Share This Motion as Well

Share This Motion as Well

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine

Feedback: For the provided snark?

Summary: The defiant look on her face and hand on her hip are more than suggesting he's wrong.

«»

They walk back towards the car, and with nearly every step his cane wrestles with the loose gravel in the parking lot. He'd give anything for some firm ground right now.

"Will you hurry?"

He watches her walk ahead of him through his expelled breaths, which linger longer than usual because of the temperature.

"And all this time I was under the impression that this cane made me walk faster than I used to."

She beats him to the car again; she's standing by the left front tire, food in one hand and the other is playing with the pass that's still around her neck. He'd lose to her forever because there's something about her that makes the end of a journey worthwhile. He doesn't dwell on that too long, he deals better with facts, something concrete. He has the urge to take out some paper and a pen and try to break her down into numbers. A proof, with reasoning principles he'd be able to find some truth in her, or make this entire situation more tangible, just a little more in his control.

"What are you thinking?"

He's been standing at the car, apparently for a few minutes, unaware. With a tilt of his head he tries to make this believable.

"Validation by numbers. Searching for truth in the universal language."

"Love?"

"No, I-"

His uncharacteristic loss of words makes her chuckle.

"Math. I meant math."

She doesn't respond, but the slight purse of her lips suggests she knew all along.

"Where are your keys?"

"Are you my mother, now? Because I've got to tell you, if you are we're going to have some serious Oedipal issues to deal with."

"I'm not going to touch that," holding her hand out, "but hand over the car keys, please."

"You don't think I can drive?"

"I want to drive your car."

"The reason?"

"If you want to use logic to explain every choice I've made, you've picked the wrong person to take on a not-date."

He pretends to mull over her statement. Really, though, he's singing to himself in his head. _With a suitcase in my hand …_

"Greg?"

_Whoa, the blue light was my baby … and the red light was my mind._

"Hello?"

"I've thought it over. You can drive."

She grabs the keys from his outstretched hand.

"It's not polite to snatch."

The defiant look on her face and hand on her hip are more than suggesting he's wrong.

"You'd already made up your mind. You just wanted me to squirm."

"I'm sure you squirming would just cap off this night perfectly-"

"Morning."

He glances at his watch; it's 1:53 a.m. Damn, she's right. Moving on.

"Is it past your bedtime? I'll warm up a cup of milk for you before you go to bed."

"Don't worry about me." As she's opening the car door, "I can go all night."

He walks around to the passenger side door. After he opens it, he tosses his cane on the backseat, and then gets in the car.

She starts the car and waits for his predictable epigram, at her expense, no less.

Turning towards her, he puts a hand on the back of her seat. The other hand is resting on the word 'airbag', etched onto the dashboard in front of his seat.

"One can only assume that when you said-"

"When I said I could go all night," putting a hand on either side of his mouth, she squeezes until his lips pucker, "I meant it every way you can take it."

Her hands slide off of his face, purposefully slow if you ask him, and she fastens her seatbelt. Still in his leering/lewd comment position from a moment earlier, his eyes go wide when she reaches down between them with her right hand.

"Tell me what to do."

"Uh-"

Hearing the familiar sounds of the car switching into drive, he coughs with the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"You're going to give me directions, right?"

"Yes. While I'm making scathing, yet accurate, comments about female drivers."

"Good. Fasten your seatbelt," as she turns the radio on, searching for a song. "Something might happen."

The words "_I never seen a light move like yours …_" whisper from the radio, and he's passing time by counting streetlights.

"Take a right up here."

"Sure, boss."

Ten minutes go by and he can still feel her hands on his face and her words at his ears. He thinks of the road that they're leaving behind, at fifty-seven m.p.h., and knows there isn't any going back.

"Take another right at the next light."

"Where exactly are we going?"

He sighs and his breath fogs over a portion of the window to his right. With a flourish of his index finger, he writes a question mark in the condensation. For a few seconds he stares at the interrogative mark, and then wipes it off with the palm of his hand.

"I'm not sure, but we'll know when we get there."

She eyes him curiously and keeps driving.


	5. Taken Seriously Their Own Strictures

Taken Seriously Their Own Strictures

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Sports Medicine

Feedback: Is lovely, in all its forms.

Summary: His inhale is felt against the inside of her wrist; he licks his lips, a twinkle in his eye, and she's drowning.

«»

Two left turns later she still hadn't the slightest idea where they were headed. The roads were pretty empty at that hour and she always loved the feeling of owning something. He had been quiet for the past twenty minutes. She wouldn't call it a comfortable silence. It was a questionable silence; she wasn't sure if it really existed between them or if they just didn't have anything to say.

"Is your leg bothering you?"

He turned towards her with heavy-lidded eyes. She looked away quickly, not ready for that kind of honesty.

"I would count the number of times you've asked me that tonight on one hand, but then I'd need a hand with a million fingers."

He wishes people would trust him to take care of himself. "It's fine."

"You've been quiet."

"Why are you here?"

"You asked me-"

"No. That's incidental and a lie. Way to cover your bases."

"It's not a lie."

"That's what your brain wants you to think. Take this left up here."

She pressed the button on her left to lower the window a few inches. The cool air forces her tresses into flight. She's jealous of the ease in which the strands dance, trembling and fluttering with the wind.

Flicking her turn signal, "We're not allowed here after dark."

"Is this some kind of game I don't understand? I ask you questions and you don't answer them. Not directly. But you do answer questions that I don't ask. I can't wait until my turn."

She takes the left, reluctantly. "Now?"

"Keep to the right. The road winds around the back of the building."

He's forgotten that making new friends is a hassle. It's always easier when people already know you. Then you can make jokes at their expense and borrow money.

"What now?"

"This may sound drastic," feigning confused look, "but it's a parking lot, so you should park the car."

He leaned to get his cane from the back seat, and by the time she'd turned the engine off he was opening the door to get out of the car. She grabbed the keys and followed him.

"What are we doing here?"

"Why do you think?"

Her gaze sweeping over their surroundings, she considers that he may actually be crazy. The directions he'd been feeding her for almost forty minutes had led them to a high school. Specifically, it was the track located behind the high school.

She shrugged her shoulders. Interesting.

"Grab the food from the car," with a nod of his head, "we're going for a walk. I'll wait."

When she gets back to him with the food, he's standing with his left hand out towards her.

"Did you want your food now?"

"No. I," sighing, "I have a problem with my leg. Not my manners."

"Oh." She hands him the bag.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. She trails a few steps behind him, content to follow and see where this leads. He stops walking when they get to the side of the bleachers that surround a section of the track. He's looking at the top, where the announcer's box is; his face suggests something of a challenge.

"There. That's where I want to eat."

"This won't hurt your leg?"

He hands her the bag of food and smiles. It's the type of smile of one who's about to do something they shouldn't.

"It might, but you're a doctor. You can make it better. Get moving."

She starts walking up the skinny aisle that leads up to the announcer's box. Without having to turn around she knows that he's not watching where he steps.

"I know you're staring at my ass."

"It's swinging back and forth in my face with every step you take. It's not so much me staring as it is your aforementioned ass blocking my field of vision."

"Can't you stare at something else?"

"If you want to walk backwards I would gladly stare at your-"

"Enough."

He's worried for a second that he's gone too far, but he won't apologize. Doesn't even entertain the thought. He realizes they're at the box already.

"The door is padlocked, Greg."

The emphasis she just on his name; it could've been the tone, perhaps she's out of breath from the walk (he doubts it), or another thing entirely, but it was dripping with something he's sure isn't sold in stores. It sends a shiver down his spine. He gets a better grip on his cane.

"How thick do you think that door is?"

She takes a step closer to get a better look at the door. On one hand, he really loves a woman that does what you ask her to do. On the other hand, he's afraid eventually he'll ask something of her that she can't possibly give.

"Looks inexpensive. Probably just a piece of plywood."

He moves to stand next to her, and then gives the door a cursory glance.

"I don't know about you," in a hushed whisper, "I really don't know about you, but I'm feeling a little felonious."

"Are you serious?"

"Very. Take a few steps back."

She did what he asked and started nervously looking around. There's always a nosy person in the vicinity when a law is being broken. They always have a video camera.

He slides his cane into the space between the door and the loose latch onto which the padlock is locked. Pressing down on the cane, which acts as a lever, the cheap latch disconnects from the door with a 'thud'. He opens the now unlocked door and is about to walk inside when she interrupts him.

"Doesn't it bother you? That you just broke a law?"

"Actually it was quite invigorating. The fact that you were present while a law was broken makes you an accessory. That's quite a sexy title for you."

She moves to stand next to him, and peers into the musty room.

"We shouldn't go in here."

"The door is open. Having second thoughts?"

"I don't know-"

"Have some fun with an old man."

"Are you saying all the time I've been talking to you I could've spent talking an old man into giving me his Social Security checks?"

"Don't use the sarcasm so much. You're very smart and very pretty. It's too much of a contrast."

She stares at him and it's the first time she's really seen him. There have been glimpses, a moment in her day when he's just a man that gives her a genuine smile. She wants to kiss him, but doesn't want what happens next. They're so tangled in their jobs and the related politics; it'd be such a bad idea to get caught up in each other. Her hand is on the doorjamb, against his side, before she knows it. His inhale is felt against the inside of her wrist; he licks his lips, a twinkle in his eye, and she's drowning.

He grabs her waist and takes one step, then another, until she's pressed against the other side of the door jam. She's got nowhere to go, and just to make sure he moves closer, pushing his body against her. Any contact he can get. Looking down at her, he speculates on just how many things she's going to make him regret. Sliding his knee between her legs, he eases her thighs apart. The friction makes her groan and causes her cheeks and neck to blush. She's got a sweaty palm sliding from his knee to the waist of his pants. She hesitates when she has her thumb tucked into his belt loop. He looks her dead in the eye and dares her into action. Quirking an eyebrow, one of her fingers, which is quickly followed by two more, dip into the waist of his pants. She trails her fingers along the inside of his waistband, towards the button of his jeans. The muscles in his stomach tremble from the contact with her knuckles. His blood going south once again, he decides she should know.

"You're ticklish," she says, with enough smugness in her voice to make him proud.

"You," he leans forward and whispers in her ear, "are so many things I couldn't possibly list them all."

"You're smart. Tell me one of the things I am."

Dipping her hand lower, she plays with the coarse hair beneath her fingers.

"Please?"

He grinds against her, slowly and with a purpose.

"You," he grinds again, proudly, as if he's practically boasting with his erection, "are bad."

She wraps a leg around him because it feels that good, that's all she currently cares about.

"You did say I was an accessory." She slips her hands underneath his t-shirt; his chest is tight and warm, she wants to taste it.

"You're my accessory."

Leaning down, he's intent on mapping out her collarbone with his tongue, when:

"Hey! You're not supposed to be here!"


	6. FreeFloating Anxieties and the Cost of L...

Free-Floating Anxieties and the Cost of Living

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG13

Spoilers: Sports Medicine

Feedback: (smiles)

Summary: "It's funny, people think they know all sorts of things. Turns out they really don't."

«»

They stop moving immediately, straining to hear where the yelling is coming from.

"What was that?"

Looking towards the direction from which the shouting had come, they see a flickering light moving across the field.

"It looks like someone running with a flashlight."

Uninterested in her thoughts regarding their interruption, he turns his head slightly to smell her hair.

"What do you think it was?"

Her hands are still underneath his shirt, palms flat against his chest. With her index finger she's tumbling verse on his skin, syllables and meter that in another context would be hard to appreciate.

"It's a UFO, a mutated breed of firefly, or perhaps a cult that comes to this field every Friday night to perform an improvisational dance."

The slight shift of her pelvis recommends he stop talking. With an adamant swivel of his hips he concurs.

His breath is oppressive, ragged against her neck; it's impossible, never again will she be able to stand near him and not think of herself. Slowly, he slides his head away from the crook of her neck. Intentional, or not, the side of his face rubs against her cheekbone. As a result, a trail of sweat and angry beard burn now decorate her profile; this is too much. She shoves his hands away from her waist.

He's surprised. "Is something-"

"Quiet."

Every part of her body is trembling with knowledge of his proximity, and grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, she shoves it from his shoulders. A quick study in everything, he helps her off with her own jacket and lets it hit the ground. He leans forward again; this time she grabs the back of his head to make sure he's not distracted. Their mouths meet, it's not borderline platonic or gentle. He runs his tongue along the length of her bottom lip and then bites down on it. Hard. She hisses a response into his mouth as he presses himself fully against her. He wants her to feel everything he'll never say. The movement causes the leg that was wrapped around him to slip. It's five inches closer to the ground before his hand slides underneath her leg, fingers fierce against the inside of her thigh, and pulls it back up to his waist. The doorframe creaks in protest of the added pressure and showers them with dust. His left hand pushes hair away from her face as he deepens the kiss.

His cane is sandwiched between his hand and her waist. When his palm starts to hurt from the cane he realizes how tight of a grip he has on her. The cane hits the ground with a clatter, surprising them both in the process. They pull apart to breathe; his nose is pressed against her forehead and her fingers are wrapped around his bicep. He lets go of her leg, and trails his fingers along her jeans as it slides back to the ground. The gesture is apologetic and she feels his chest expand against her as he sighs.

"I'm sorry."

After giving it a quick squeeze, she removes her hand from his bicep.

"For what?" She hates that she has to pretend there's no catch in her voice.

"My aim wasn't to take you to a random location-"

"I know."

She crosses her arms in front of her, it's a shield if he's ever seen one, and he never wants to consider her impenetrable.

He takes a somewhat staggered step backwards. "Would you hand me my cane?"

She turns around and bends down to pick up his cane from the floor. As soon as she's bent at a ninety-degree angle, she feels something large and warm underneath her shirt, moving from the base of her spine towards her neck. A second later his hand is planted firmly between her shoulder blades preventing her from standing up, and he's now standing directly behind her, preventing her from bending down any further.

"It's funny, people think they know all sorts of things. Turns out they really don't."

"Is there a point to this? I do yoga. I can stand like this for hours."

He presses harder on her back. She grunts. He smiles. And presses down again.

"I can't. Bum leg; don't know if you've heard. My point," he presses a thumb between her shoulder blades, "is that it wouldn't be here, if it happened. You should expect more from men in general."

He runs a finger from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine; her subsequent involuntary shudder and goose bumps make him want to forget who he is. He smoothes down her shirt, and then takes a step back so she can stand.

"You couldn't say that while I was standing?"

Raised eyebrows. "I could've … of course, you'd no doubt be staring me down and I'd have to pretend those red marks on your cheek and neck aren't from me. Most likely I'd stutter over a three-letter word. This way my dignity remains intact."

She smirks and he gets the feeling he's missed something.

"Definitely intact," she says, and hands him his cane.

She gets their coats from the floor, and hands his to him. As she's putting on her coat, she takes a few steps outside the announcer's box and looks down to the field. He stands behind her, but not close, and takes his prescription bottle from his pocket.

She hears the pill's familiar rattle, and looks at him. "Did you go to school here?"

"No."

He swallows a pill and puts the bottle back into his pocket.

"Why did you want to come here?"

"I didn't."

"It wouldn't hurt to be a little more forthcoming."

He looks anywhere but at her face.

"Sure, why not? While I'm at it, I should get fork and stab myself in the eye. Better yet, a spork. Cutting edge, I hear."

He's a bit relieved when she doesn't respond. Then her hand is on his shoulder, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the lapel of his jacket, and he will forever have trouble with things left unsaid.

"Before," gesturing to his cane, "before this I ran. I ran anywhere my legs could or couldn't take me. To get somewhere of your own volition is satisfying."

She smiles, picturing him and the ground punished underneath his feet.

"I was on the swim team."

"Oh?"

Shrugs. "I was for a while. I didn't like it."

"And why is that?"

"I love to swim but not back and forth in a pool. I hate to-"

"Stay in one place? You like to keep moving?"

"Yeah." She drops her arm back down to her side. "Is that how you felt when you ran?"

"No, it was just something I read on a bumper sticker once."

More silence.

"I felt that way sometimes. Other times I just wanted to get the hell out of New Jersey."

She laughs. It's loud and would be totally inappropriate anywhere else. The artery in the side of her neck, close to her jaw, pulsates three times before he leans over to kiss her. His mouth lands on the side of her face, in front of her ear, and lingers a few moments because the second he moves away he'll hate himself.

"What time is it?"

"About twenty after four. Why?"

"You don't work today; this I know. You need to sleep in case you get called, but first. I want to show you something."

It's contagious when he's acting like a child with a secret.

"What is it?"

"Why would I tell you? It's your choice. Are you in or out?"

"I don't know …"

"Time, the old wench, is of the essence. Answer."

"In."

"Okay then." He slips his hand into her front pocket and takes the car keys. "I'm driving."

The walk back to the car is silent for the most part. He tells her several times to walk faster. He zooms out of the parking lot at a speed that most drivers' education teachers would frown upon.

A few minutes into the drive she realizes. "We left the food."

"Obviously we can't go back."

"Have to keep moving."

She looks at the sky, dusk fading to dawn, and knows how it feels.


	7. The Details are Not Essential

The Details are Not Essential

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine

Feedback: makes me warm and tingly.

Summary: "Then get your ass in here." He nods his head. "And bring the rest of you, too."

«»

He weaves along back roads, hoping to shorten their drive, because the few times he has second-guessed himself have always been outside of work.

In the passenger seat, head lolled back, she's fast asleep. At first he was a bit offended as to the fact that someone fell asleep in his company. Then some common sense crept into his thought; they'd both had long days and he wasn't sure when she had last slept. He doesn't sleep much, mostly because his brain won't shut up, and his leg keeps him awake. It's something else that's out of his hands but up to his leg. As a result he sleeps in three to four hour increments.

The buzzing in his pocket confuses him for a second, but then he realizes: his phone. He takes it from his pocket and checks the display. It's Wilson. He turns the radio down and looks at Allison. It's possible this night could end even more awkward than it began. The vibration in his hand brings him back to the phone. If he doesn't answer he knows Wilson will call back, like a wife who is wondering why her husband is out late and what he's doing. He rolls his eyes as he presses talk.

"What?"

"My, aren't we a little snappish?"

"No. It's just that I've noticed there's a disturbing correlation between this phone and people with whom I have no interest in talking calling me way too often."

"And … that's not snappish?"

"Did you call me for any other reason besides to exercise your geriatric vocabulary?"

"I'd been back from dinner for a while and you hadn't called."

"I supposed to what, check in with you now? Do I get an allowance, too?"

"You know-"

"Does the wife know you're this needy?"

"I thought you'd be curious about dinner."

"Was the lobster as good as people say it is?"

There's a pause; Wilson sighs.

"Stacy. I meant Stacy."

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Greg-"

"It's six words. Do you need a dictionary?"

"You're still with Cameron, aren't you?"

He shouldn't have answered the phone.

"I was never with Cameron. We've merely been existing in the same space."

"You're going to start using Physics to describe relationships with other people?"

"M-theory just fascinates me," he says, briefly thinking he should pioneer a type of intelligent sarcasm.

He hears Allison shift in her seat, and turns to take a peek at her. It could be the lack of adequate lighting in the car or that he's constantly under the influence of painkillers, but she looks relaxed. It's not him; he's never been conducive to relaxation.

"Hello?"

"There is no relationship," he continues, turning back towards the road. "It's a non-date."

"I doubt she sees it that way. She's got a schoolgirl crush on you."

He pulls into a parking space and turns off the car.

"I was clear about the non-date from the start, did I stutter? And most schoolgirls – I mean, she's got a tattoo."

He could practically hear the rise of Wilson's eyebrows.

"A tattoo?"

"If my powers of observation live up to their reputation, I'd say an inch down and four over from her navel."

"You know this for a fact?"

"It's not conclusive; I'll get back to you after I've extolled to her the virtues of sex with a man who uses a cane."

"Greg-"

"Does it get you off, saying my name so much?"

He turns to look at her again, and is surprised to see that she is awake. More importantly, wide awake and staring right at him. She's drowsy and mischievous; his car is too small.

"We'll talk later when you can hold up your end of the conversation."

He hangs up on Wilson without a first thought and puts the phone back into his pocket.

"Wilson, I'm assuming?"

He's not sure if he should answer her.

"Yes."

"Your conversations with him always seem to end with an insult."

She looks to the building at their right.

"You live here."

The building is imposing by implication alone. Shoulders tensing up, she absentmindedly glides her tongue along the bottom lip on which he bit down earlier. His taste lingers, or she wishes it did.

"And you know this because …"

She can practically see the wheels in his head turning, trying to figure out how she knows this particular piece of information. After a minute she takes pity on him, although she'd never say.

"You're not the only one that's curious."

He coughs. "We'll expand on that topic another time, but for now we have to hurry."

Without another word he gets out of the car. She promptly exits the car and follows him into the building.

Moments later they're in the elevator staring at distorted reflections of themselves on the inside of its doors. Five floors up, a bell signals their exit from the elevators. Before the doors shut again, he snakes a hand back inside and quickly presses all the floor buttons.

She looks mildly amused, the key word being mildly.

"Do you do that every time you ride in an elevator?"

"No," he responds as he's walking past her, "just when I'm feeling a bit wayward."

Staring at the door of his apartment, she feels the need to lower her voice. "How often is that?"

He slides a key into the knob and unlocks the door. After pushing the door open, he signals for her to enter first.

"All the time," reaches her ears as she enters the apartment.

She stops as she gets past the entryway to look around. The first thing that catches her eye is the piano and she smiles realizing she was right. Every surface seems to be covered with laid open books and scattered magazines.

"Over here," he calls from the rear of the apartment.

She tries to follow the sound of his voice and winds up standing in front of a number of similar looking doorways. If this isn't a metaphor, she thinks.

A tousled head of brown hair peeks through one of the doorways.

"Coming?"

She walks over to him and stops in her tracks. It's his bedroom.

He senses her hesitation.

"Will you grow up? I'm not going to pounce the minute you step foot in the room."

"I know."

"Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you at work."

He leans against the doorframe, a lacrosse ball in the palm of his hand, and starts tossing it up in the air.

"At work. Okay. But we're not at work now; it's the two of us. The only life that hangs in the balance is yours. The relevant question is: do you trust yourself?"

"Of course I do." It's certain situations she doesn't trust.

"Then get your ass in here." He nods his head. "And bring the rest of you, too."

He walks back into the room and leaves her standing in the doorway.

She goes into the room. It's fairly large for a bedroom and has a balcony. He is standing on the balcony, wind causing his shirt to flap around him, with his mouth pressed against the glass making funny faces. She smiles and wonders what she was so anxious about. He waves her over.

She moves towards the balcony, but after two steps half-stumbles over something. Looking down, she sees it's his cane. Funny. She picks it up and throws it on his bed. She glances at his bed and is definitely not wondering which parts his body has touched. (Keep moving.) She takes off her coat and tosses it on the bed near his cane.

He opens the balcony's door. "You're going to miss it."

She tries to step onto the balcony, but he's blocking the doorway.

"Miss what?"

He squints. "You never did tell me why you're here. And I don't mean existentially speaking, either."

"I'm here because I want to be here." It's unsettling the way he leans into her words when she speaks. "Satisfied?"

"Nope." He moves out of her way.

"What are we doing?"

"Who knows? But in five minutes the sun will be rising."

She rests her arms on the railing and looks to the street below.

"What makes you think I've never seen the sun rise?"

He limps over to her, and with his right hand grips the railing for support.

"Never said that."

"Rain, shine, golf ball sized hail; the sun's always there. It's something that people see every day, but hardly take the time to recognize, let alone appreciate."

"You brought me back to your place to see the sun rise?"

"No, to appreciate it. People nowadays are so easily amused by technology. They need to be reminded that something bigger than each one of them exists. Uncontrollable and way more valuable."

She stands up and faces him. "You're as amused by technology as the next person."

"I'm aware." He shifts his stance, briefly wincing. "Everyone needs a reminder now and then."

She noticed his wince. "Leg?"

"It's fine."

It's too late; she's in doctor mode now.

"It's not fine. When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink? At the rally?"

"I said I'm fine."

She puts a hand on her hip.

"Your body says it's not fine. You're pale and sweaty."

"I just need my cane." He grits his teeth. "I'm used to support from the side. Leaning on this railing is killing my thigh."

She smiles softly.

"My cane? It's back in the room somewhere."

Her hand slides off of her hip. "No. I almost tripped over it."

"Then I need to sit."

"Use me." It's out of her mouth quickly, like a breath she'd been holding too long.

"Did you just-"

"Lean on me."

He tries to read her face. She seems genuinely concerned despite his best efforts to prevent it. The wind blows hair away from her face, and he heaves a sigh realizing it took the last of his resolve along with it.

She doesn't want to wait twenty minutes while he stands around thinking about possibilities. After gripping the railing in front of her with one hand she slides her free arm around his waist, hand planted firmly on his side.

"Go ahead. Lean. I won't break," she says, getting a firmer grip on his side.

"But I might," he adds, resignedly.

He leans into her slowly, and is surprised by how strong she is.

"It's okay," she tries to reassure him, "it's just in lieu of your cane."

"Yeah."

He slides his hand underneath her hair and rests it on the base of her neck. When his fingers start drumming on her neck she turns towards him.

"It doesn't change anything," she doesn't lie, but tries for him.

"This," he starts, his hand warm and fingers tight around the back of her neck, he watches her eyes close in response.

"This changes everything."

While her eyes remain closed, she gets a tighter grip on his waist and pretends she can see the sunrise through her eyelids.


	8. A Pretty Taste For Paradox

A Pretty Taste For Paradox

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Sports Medicine

Feedback: Don't crush me.

Summary: Ten hours later she's in his apartment, at his piano, and he's overwhelmed by her dreadfully vibrant cacophony.

«»

He slides his hand from her neck and into his pocket to prevent the gesture from becoming habitual.

Her eyes open as she shifts against him. His hand returns to the base of her neck.

"You're not supposed to look directly at the sun."

"True."

"It's supposedly bad for our eyes," she whispers against his shoulder.

He looks at her and wonders why people can't just enjoy something. Take it for what it is.

"Probably."

"I'd hate to miss the rest of this, but where's the bathroom?"

He slides his hand away again and grips the railing in her place.

"You're not missing much. The sun will be here tomorrow."

"I know." She moves her arm from around his waist. "It's not the sun I think won't be here tomorrow."

"This," he begins, but then realizes what she's implying.

The closest he can come to looking her in the eye is to stare at the ground near her feet. Why would she wear boots with a two-inch heel to a monster truck rally?

"The bathroom?" she tries again.

"Left." His gaze stays on the ground. "Two doors down."

"Thanks."

His head doesn't come back up until she's gone from sight. The fleeting affects of the rising sun have painted his portrait onto the glass of the balcony door. He stares at his reflection; a moment captured in light and atmosphere, and feels the weight of every single bone in his weary frame.

He walks back into his bedroom, closing the balcony door quietly behind him. He limps over to his bed. First shrugging off his jacket, then button down shirt, he tosses them on the bed. With a groan he sits down, then flops backwards on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Arms folded behind his head, he's curious as to why she is still there. She's the first thing in a long time he can't fully comprehend; he's irritated, not au fait (French always comes back to him an insult) due to lack of information. Knowledge was his first drug and she may be the fix that kills him.

«»

His bathroom was virtually spotless and she stifles the urge to ask him what he uses to clean his mirrors.

Upon entering his bedroom, she's both amused and concerned about what she sees in front of her. It's her boss, a constant source of frustration and arousal, fast asleep. He's flat on his back with arms above his head. She's never seen him so unguarded and walks closer to get a better look.

Her gaze travels to his face first. He appears younger when resting. There's a twitch in his jaw; apparently he grinds his teeth while sleeping. He's probably not used to being quiet for so long. His neck gives way into broad shoulders. Watching the rise and fall of his chest underneath an old t-shirt, she counts each breath and wants them all for herself. Moving further down his body, she stops when her gaze lands on his groin. She remembers the way he felt pressed against her, with insistent hands and eyes blazing a trail for his mouth to follow. At the hospital, watching him with patients, his touch is impersonal, a means by which to find facts that solve anatomical puzzles. There is so much tied up in his touch, but hours ago for a transitory moment, it had only been her.

The shoes she had put onsome timebefore were starting to bother her feet. She sits down on the edge of the bed and one at a time unzips her boots and slides them off her feet. Suddenly craving salt, she leaves the boots on the floor by the bed and heads towards the kitchen.

Standing in front of the opened refrigerator, she's counted two half eaten cartons of Chinese food, four slices of pizza, one cheeseburger and a greasy brown paper bag of which the contents can't be anything healthy. She decides to look through his cabinets, hoping to find something edible. The kitchen is dusty and she suspects he doesn't spend much time there. Still, there are books scattered on the counter and the small table nearby.

She finds, of all things, animal crackers in a cabinet above the stove. Compared with the other food she's discovered, the animal crackers are a welcome find. Taking a handful of crackers she steps out of the kitchen and decides to take a look around. He won't mind. Not as long as he doesn't find out, anyway.

Somewhat methodical in the strangest of times, she goes back to where it had begun. The piano. It was the first thing she had seen when she entered the apartment. This entire situation so far had been a not-so-clear-cut journey of chances taken and feelings that are usually ignored and most definitely left unsaid. The piano is another piece of him that she'll take with her when she leaves, regardless of what happens between them. She presses down on the keys with a palm of her hand. It sounds like the musical equivalent of a car accident. Undeterred, she sits down on the bench to try again. One key at a time won't hurt. She can't make a single key sound that bad.

«»

He wakes up in a panic and jumps out of bed. His leg protests, naturally.

"Fucking motherfucker!"

The pills are ever-present in his pocket. He takes one out and dry swallows it.

He forgets about his leg sometimes. The few seconds after he wakes up, but before he collects his thoughts, the infarction and its consequences don't exist. If he moves that's all blown to shit. When he doesn't move it's nice for a few seconds to not have a physical reminder of his own limitations.

Turning around to get his cane from the bed, he hears a noise. Actually, it's more of a bang. Then he looks at the bed and sees the various items strewn across it. Cane, coat, shirt, and coat. He edges closer to take the cane and his foot hits something; a leather boot. After doing the apparel arithmetic he remembers. Allison.

My aim is true … 

He makes a mental note to stop listening to Elvis Costello, who encourages errant thoughts. The sound of her torturing his baby grand shakes him from reflection. He takes off his shoes, making sure to throw them out of the way so he doesn't trip over them later, and heads towards the gut-wrenching sound of a grief-stricken arpeggio.

Upon reaching the threshold of the room, he sees her, head bowed and sitting in front of his piano. It's very personal and makes him apprehensive. He had intended to see some angry, bone crunching, metal on metal action contained in the glory that is monster trucks. Ten hours later she's in his apartment, at his piano, and he's overwhelmed by her dreadfully vibrant cacophony. He should go over to her, if only to prevent the assisted suicide of his piano. Eyes following the grain in his hardwood floor, he agonizes over the inability to self-confidently make choices outside of work.

Go to her. Don't go to her. Breathe. Go to her. Don't go to her. Don't. Don't.

He stares at the ground, willing it to keep his secrets, and pretends he can make this decision.

Breathe. Do nothing. Do something. Breathe. React.

Getting a firmer grip on his cane and a steadier grip on his nerves, he starts to make his way to her. By walking with his cane in sync with her erratic playing, he manages to walk up behind her undetected. He can smell himself on her and wishes her hands were somewhere else.

«»

This is harder than she remembers. Brief lessons over a few summer vacations did little to increase whatever musical aptitude she did have. She stops in mid-play when she feels something hard pressed into her lower back. Kneecaps. There's a shadow looming over the piano, which can only mean he's awake and standing directly behind her.

"Have a nice look around?"

She turns around and is greeted with the middle of his torso.

"Up here," he says, rather firmly.

That's a new tone. She looks up at him staring down at her with a smirk. Men and smirks are never a good combination.

"Thought you could figure me out by poking about the place?"

"I'm not sure-"

"A summation contrived from a cursory glance? One look and you've got me pegged?"

"I never said that," she says. "I was curious."

"I'm not one for mundane analogies, but you've heard of the cat that suffers an untimely death at the hands of curiosity?"

"At work I get paid while listening to you speak."

He leans down and scrunches his features together. "And?"

"We're not at work now." She slides over. "Sit."

"Fine," he replies, with a sneer.

He sits down next to her and moves to lean his cane against the piano, but then changes his mind. Instead he lays it across both of their laps. The handle lands, intentionally and not without a small amount of force, nestled between her denim-covered thighs.

"So sorry. Polished wood is hard to control sometimes," he smiles.

The look in his eye insinuates he's jealous of the cane.

"Let me."

He reaches to remove the cane from her lap, but she puts a hand out to stop him.

"Leave it."

He's wary of her response.

"Why?"

"Unlike most people I can handle what you throw at me."

"What do you want? A plaque commemorating your backbone?"

She grins and decides to back off of him. When she presses another key he flinches.

"Stop that," he says, and covers her right hand with his own to keep her from striking another key.

"You know this is a piano?"

"It wasn't that bad," she defends.

"Yeah, and I'm going to get up and do a jig."

"You make it sound as if I had the piano begging for its life," she laughs.

He trails his fingers along a few keys. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Maybe you need some drama."

She'll never be a piano player, but when her palm touches the side of his face she brings out the best in him, and his eyes sing just for her.

She straddles the bench and moves closer to him. With a hand on the inside of his knee, she leans forward and kisses the underside of his jaw. Her tongue traces the curve of his cheek and she plants a kiss in front of his ear. He shudders when she bites down on his earlobe. With his eyes closed and head spinning, she slides a hand between them and cups him through his jeans.

"Another cane?" she whispers against his neck.

His erection responds, twitching in her hand, and she squeezes hard.

"No," he growls.

He shoves her hand off of him and then grabs both of her wrists, pinning her arms to her side.

"This still wasn't a date."

She nods and takes a deep breath. He steals her next one when he kisses her back.


	9. Held Up Without a Gun

Held Up Without a Gun

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: R

Feedback: Naturally.

Random: Thanks to Valerie. You can pick and pull and trim and tuck, but in the end it's still my mess. Apologies for the Eliot bombardment via fan fiction.

Summary: He's standing at the foot of the bed with his cane tucked under his left arm.

«»

His cane hits the floor with certain inevitability.

He pulls away from her. "Wait."

She gives him a look that indicates murder. And then gets over it.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

He lets go of her wrists and watches her hands fall into her lap.

He exhales loudly. "I'm not young-"

"Give me a break," she says, obviously not over it. "I've heard this spiel before. You're older than me, there's a limp, and you only speak two languages: mockery and sarcasm. I don't care about all that."

Her rant almost makes him smile.

"Thanks for that boost to my self-esteem, but I wasn't going to say that."

"Really?" she says, frowning.

"Now that you mention it …" he attempts.

She smiles. "Don't," she tells him, putting a hand on his chest and shoving him, "I've heard enough of that."

He offers no reply but starts to unbutton her shirt.

She's confused. Amused. There are other appropriate inflected verbs, she's sure, but syntax has never been her strong point. Especially when House's efficient fingers are unbuttoning her shirt.

"I believe in equal opportunity groping," he says, off her look.

"Equal opportunity?"

"Of course." He unbuttoned the last button and pushed open her shirt. "As long as I have an advantage."

"If you have an advantage that's hardly equal opportunity," she says.

"Huh," he mumbles, staring at her breasts. "Like I say," he starts, without breaking his gaze on her chest, "you know, with the everybody and the lies."

"You're-"

He fingers her bra strap. "Purple?" He looks at her and she blushes. "I always thought white with a pretty bow."

"You thought wrong."

He watches the blush travel from her cheeks to her neck, stopping just past her collarbone.

"This is obstructing my view."

He reaches behind her to unclasp her bra.

She stops him. "What were you going to say before?" she asks.

He tugs on the back of her bra. "What?"

"It was two minutes ago."

"Don't remember."

"Greg," she tries.

He lets go of her offending bra and watches her closely. "To put it bluntly, no fucking on the piano bench."

"I could watch you try to play using your-"

He stands up, cane in hand. "Not going to happen." He starts to leave. "You know where my bedroom is," he says over his shoulder.

"You're too smug," she yells at his back.

He stops, "Hmm … don't think so," and keeps walking.

She sits on the piano bench and watches him walk away. He's the only man with a limp that can walk with a swagger. When he's out of sight she curses herself and gets up to follow him.

«»

When she gets to the bedroom she doesn't see him anywhere. She takes a few steps further into the room and before she knows it she's lying face down on the bed. He actually pushed her onto the bed. God love a man who's an animal. She rolls onto her back.

He's standing at the foot of the bed with his cane tucked under his left arm.

"I couldn't resist," he confesses.

She slides to the end of the bed and sits on the edge.

"There's been, I think, a misunderstanding," he moves to stand between her legs, "I don't put out on first dates."

She tilts her head a bit. "That's fine with me," she replies, reaching for his belt. "This was a non-date; your morals will remain in tact."

"And you're so sure of yourself," he says, cocking his head.

He watches her take off his pants.

"I work with you," she pauses for his zipper, "it was bound to rub off on me," she finishes.

She tugs on his jeans and pulls down. He braces himself on her shoulders as he steps out of his pants. Her own shirt and jeans are discarded.

"Your leg?" she asks, as he takes off his shirt.

He drops his cane and tosses his shirt on top of it.

"I'm all Vicodin-ed up, I'll be fine unless you're a reverse cowboy type of gal," he comments, with a small grin.

She grabs both of his wrists and pulls him on top of her.

"Subtle." He parts her legs with his kneecap.

She reaches for him but he pins her hands to the bed.

"You're a control freak," he mutters.

Before she has a chance to reply, he grabs a handful of her hair and kisses her, gasping, his mouth into hers. She wrapped her arms around him; clutching any part of him she can get her hands on. She was needy, hooking her leg around his thigh and reaching for him through his boxers. He groaned, tracing circles on her hip, and thought about all the ways this could end. Biology was marvelous.

"Take off your boxers," she says, against his mouth.

"I don't need-"

"Your thigh," pulling away from him, "I want to see your scar," she whispers.

He braces himself on his forearms and sighs.

"Why'd you have to," he starts, rolling over onto his back. "Why'd you have to say that? You're nearly naked. I would very much enjoy you naked."

He lays an arm over his eyes and doesn't say a word - until he feels her tugging at the elastic around his waist.

He sits up on his elbows. "What are you doing?" he asks.

She stares, eyes warm at the sight of him, and rests a hand on his injured thigh.

"I want to see your thigh," she repeats.

He looks down to his chest. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

She slides her other hand onto his good thigh.

"You're wrong."

He looks her in the eye, willing her to drop the subject. She holds his gaze, returning it defiantly.

"Fine," he concedes.

He can do nothing but crumble under her scrutiny and hope she can find him worthy among the accumulated detritus.

"Scar tissue and atrophied muscle tends to kill the mood," he tells her as he takes off his boxers. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

She keeps her eyes fixed on his leg as his thigh comes into full view. She takes a closer look while his gaze burns a hole in top of her head.

"Oh, House," she whispers.

He doesn't reply but as she moves closer the surrounding muscles twitch as if he's already pulling away. Her fingertips are a breath away from contact but she hesitates.

"It's fine," he says reassuringly. "There's been some nerve damage; you can apply a fair amount of pressure. It's the muscle involved that causes the pain."

She nods and runs her hand over the inches long scar that runs parallel with his leg. The scar itself isn't bad; it's the thigh in its entirety. It's a bit thinner than his other leg and there's a hairless depression where dead tissue had been removed. She flattens her hand out over the depression and presses down until she can feel blood throbbing in her fingertips.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, looking up to meet his eyes. "I wish it hadn't happened."

Her earnest expression and intense gaze would be bordering on rudeness if was anyone else. He needs to fix this.

"Not your fault."

She shakes her head. "I know …" she responds and then sniffles.

'Uh oh,' he thinks to himself.

"Admittedly, it's been a while, so correct me if I'm wrong but I don't think crying is a type of foreplay," he says.

He's relieved when she laughs, but the laugh somehow ends in a stifled sob. And she begins to cry. She's crying for him because he can't. He's never been this grateful or this ashamed. He won't tell her any of this; she already knows.

"Don't do that," he pleads.

He watches her, barely dressed and in his bedroom, but crying. He's jealous. She's managed to do in fifteen minutes what he hasn't been able to do in five years: come to terms with his leg. He reaches towards the floor and picks up the first thing his hand brushes. It's his t-shirt.

"Here," he says, holding the shirt out to her, "I don't have any tissues in this room."

He won't meet her gaze when she takes the shirt from his hand and throws it back onto the floor. She scoots next to him, turns around, and wraps her arms around his waist. He tries to move but she won't let go. He isn't surprised.

"Hey," he tells her, frustrated at his lack of words. _This is the way the world ends … this is the way the world ends … this is the way the world ends …_

He whispers into her hair, something akin to her name or God's. It could be either one; his hands slide to the small of her back while he remembers what it's like to have faith in something.

"Please tell me this won't become habit," he pauses and lowers his voice. "I couldn't stand it."

Her hair smells like autumn and when she shifts it softly snakes over his shoulder and down his back. He's quite content with the fact that there's a crying woman in his arms. This is when he knew there'd be no getting over her.


End file.
